


Truth

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, mild gore associated with the description of a demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-08-13 17:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Anxiety causes Crowley to change into his demonic form. But when he can't remember how to change back, Aziraphale helps, fighting truth with truth.





	1. Chapter 1

“Crowley? Where are you, dear?” Aziraphale hurries through Crowley’s flat in search of his demon, adjusting his cuffs and straightening his collar. He’s dressed to the nines, only he doesn’t know why. Crowley requested it. He claimed tonight was _special, _so Aziraphale broke out his finest suit. That still might mean his demon will dress in a thin black shirt and jeans but, in his defense, they will be his _best_ jeans.

He rounds the corner to the master bathroom, humming an old hymn to himself. “Are you finished dressing? We’re going to be late for din---“

“Stop! Go away! Don’t look at me!”

Aziraphale stumbles to a halt, catching himself on one foot before he can suffer the misfortune of falling forward on his face. Once he regains his balance, he tries to abide by his demon’s wishes, the pain in Crowley’s voice compelling him to turn away, but it’s too late.

He’s already seen.

Crowley, naked, curled into a partial ball, shredded wings trembling as they try fruitlessly to shield his distorted form.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cries, but out of respect, he doesn’t rush to help regardless of the voice in his head screaming for him to do exactly that. “What happened? Were you attacked? Did a … did a _demon_ get in? Or an angel?” He looks around, searching for any sign of an intruder, but he detects nothing. This bathroom, the bedroom before it, the whole flat smells like Crowley, feels like Crowley. Aside from the touches of Aziraphale blossoming in small corners of every room, there’s no trace of anyone else.

“I’d hoped you’d never see me like this,” Crowley whispers.

“See you like what?” Aziraphale tiptoes closer, needing to be near his demon, to ease his suffering if he can. “What’s wrong, Crowley? What’s happened to you?”

Crowley sighs straight to his bones, defeated. His wings, bent at unnatural angles and nearly featherless, fall away, the strain of keeping them up pushing the boundaries of his strength. He rolls to his knees, bowed low to the floor, reminiscent of a child in prayer. Sparse strands of slate black hair cling to his hollow cheeks; skeletal fingers, sprouting jagged talons, cover his eyes. “This is who I am, Aziraphale. This is what I look like … when I’m not in human form.”

“I---I thought you were a serpent,” Aziraphale stutters, mind racing, attempting to make sense of this, to rectify the fact that this (he hates to think it) _monstrosity_ lying on the floor at his feet is his Crowley.

Crowley shakes his head, the bones in his neck crackling loudly with the movement. “I wish it were that simple.”

Aziraphale takes a step, then another. Crowley turns his head toward him, void black eyes watching his slow progression forward, but he doesn’t object. Aziraphale accepts that as a sign, taking another step until he’s a foot away from Crowley’s mangled right wing.

_‘My God,’_ he thinks. He’d never thought, never realized …

For six thousand years, he’d seen Crowley in _human _form. A serpent a handful of times, but mostly human. But human Crowley is a façade. It’s how he imagines himself to be. His human form, and the fact that he maintains it during times when other demons wouldn’t see the need, are two of the most optimistic things about him.

Some might blame vanity, but Aziraphale chooses to believe otherwise.

In truth, Crowley is a demon.

And _this_ is his demon form.

Scarred.

Deformed.

Decaying.

Aziraphale kneels beside him. “H-how … how did you get this way?”

“I … I changed for a moment.” Crowley sniffs. “I usually don’t because … I don’t want to forget ...”

“But _why_ did you change?”

“I got anxious? And now … I---I can’t remember how to change back.”

_Anxious? _That strikes Aziraphale as odd. _Why would Crowley get anxious over dinner? They’ve dined together dozens of times._

“Are you injured?” Aziraphale’s eyes follow Crowley’s spine where it runs between his wings, the bones protruding as if the greying flesh covering them were no thicker than onion skin. Cracks form before his eyes when Crowley breathes too deep. Oily gunk leaks from the wounds, searing everywhere it touches, and from the burns, maggots form, spilling onto the floor, squirming helplessly on the tile.

Aziraphale has been in the company of demons before during his stint in hell as Crowley. He’s seen them as they are – rotting flesh, black eyes, fetid wounds oozing pus and crusted over with coagulated blood, some with dagger sharp teeth, some with their teeth disintegrating out of their heads. He’s been told that, where the fallen are concerned, the punishment fits the crime. Hence, the worse they behaved, the more vile they appear.

As far as he knows, Hastur, who in his demon form is a conglomeration of maggots bound together by mucous and some sort of evil goop, holds the highest honor in hell. And whereas he definitely deserves it, in Aziraphale’s opinion, whoever created that system also has a penchant for overreaction.

For the sins Crowley committed that got him exiled from heaven – the handling of which, over time, Aziraphale himself has begun to question - he doesn’t deserve this.

Regardless of his own beliefs, Aziraphale must have realized that hiding underneath the glamour of Crowley’s human form, something ghastly lay beneath. If he had only known …

… it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Crowley’s human form – the handsome man with the serpent eyes and the exceptional sense of style - appeals to Aziraphale because Aziraphale has seen the heart of the being inside. He sees it now in this broken creature before him, turning himself nearly inside out to hide his shame.

“No. I’m not injured. I just need to get back … need to change back …”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale says soothingly, reaching out to lay hands on his demon. “I can just …”

“No!” Crowley snaps, but his face crumbles immediately after. This isn’t Aziraphale’s fault. He shouldn’t be taking this out on him. But his first instinct is to push him away, bolt out of this room, jump in his car, and drive – leave and not return for at least a hundred years.

But that’s his pride talking. He needs Aziraphale now, in this horrible moment, more than ever.

“I don’t … I don’t want to be miracled. Please. I just want to remember … who I am.”

_Who I choose to be_, he means because this … this distasteful creature, covered in sores and pot-marked flesh, _is_ his true form.

Aziraphale scoots closer, fitting himself beneath the remains of Crowley’s wing. Crowley shrinks away, but Aziraphale extends a hand.

“Please,” he whispers. “Please, let me help you.”

Crowley doesn’t. He can’t. He has so many regrets from his thousands of years on Earth, but this tops them all. But his biggest regret isn’t in letting Aziraphale see him this way. He would have eventually. Crowley is a demon. Lying is in his manifesto. But the way he feels for his angel, the way he knows his angel feels about him - keeping this a secret for too much longer would have been unforgivable, even for him.

No, his biggest regret is that he’s lived this lie so long, he almost convinced himself it was real.

When Crowley doesn’t move, Aziraphale takes the initiative and inches closer, hand still extended, pleading with his entire body for Crowley to take it.

“Please,” Aziraphale repeats. “We can do this. Together.”

With a slight nod, Crowley claws his way towards him, meets him half way, and hides his face in his angel’s lap. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to see more than he already has. If this doesn’t work and Crowley has to leave, descend into hell and stay there, he doesn’t want Aziraphale to remember him this way.

Aziraphale puts a hand on the crown of his demon’s head, silently praying for his strength. “What do you need, Crowley?”

“I need … to remember. That’s all. Just … remember …”

“You have wavy red hair down to your shoulders, like the soft parting rays of a summer sunset.” Aziraphale cards his fingers through Crowley’s thin hair the way he would any other time they’re together, touches his neck and spine with soft fingertips, lays kisses on his shattered wing. “You part it down the middle so it frames your face. You never fail to look ten years younger than me. I have a feeling you do that on purpose.”

“Maybe …” Crowley teases in a quiet voice and Aziraphale smiles.

_He’s not gone. He hasn’t left me. Not yet._

“You have cunning yellow serpent eyes; a broad forehead; high cheekbones; a square, masculine chin …”

On and on, Aziraphale continues, describing his Crowley from heart, the way he sees him, from his all too kissable lips (which finally makes Crowley laugh) to the fact that, as hard as he tries to fight it, from time to time, he still has faith in the good and the beautiful and the wonderful things on Earth. Aziraphale feels Crowley shiver as he tries to re-form into the man he’s describing, watches scraggly black hair turn brown, then blond, then settle at last on a gorgeous fire red. The maggots disappear, absorbed into the breath of the universe. Sores heal. Pale, grey skin darkens, becomes thicker. Maps of veins and arteries form, then disappear beneath healthier, human flesh. Muscles grow and sculpt beneath Aziraphale’s fingers as his hand moves from Crowley’s head down his back.

His words create a path that Crowley’s magic follows, but his fingers seem to heal on contact with no miracling required.

Crowley’s shuddering slows as his body becomes familiar, more recognizable, and Aziraphale’s heart skips.

“Your wings are raven black,” he says, those words causing feathers to grow, “and shine like obsidian. You dress better than anyone I’ve ever known … (*clears his throat*) _aside from me_. You can charm the honey out of a bee hive, and you’re a fantastic dancer. A-and I know you don’t like to hear it, but when you want to be, you can be an incredibly kind and generous person.”

“Sh-shut up,” Crowley mutters, but lightly. His wings straighten and extend, full and unbent as the first time Aziraphale saw them. A ripple of red light travels the length of Crowley’s body from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, this sweep restoring the clothes he’d been wearing – a crisp black dress shirt with, of all things, a tartan collar, and black slacks.

Crowley breathes in deep, lets it out slowly, gathering his strength, and stealing a moment to swallow his wounded pride. He raises his head, then his hands to the level of his eyes. He looks them over, flexes them, laughing with relief. He chances a look into his angel’s eyes, Aziraphale’s expression all he needs to see to know that it worked.

And it did.

“I’m … I’m back!”

“You may have looked different, my dear, but you never left.”

“Wait …” Crowley runs a hand through his hair “… you told me my hair is long, but I just got it cut.”

“True, but that was a mistake. I’ve rectified that for you. I’ve always liked it this way better.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Crowley blinks his eyes, slowly sitting up, getting comfortable again in his human form. He catches a glimpse of the wall clock.

9:47.

How did two hours zip by so quickly?

“I’m sorry, love, but we may have missed our reservation,” he says. “I can miracle us up another if you’d like.”

“I …”

Their gazes land on it at the same time – Crowley’s on purpose and Aziraphale’s by accident. It sits not too far from Aziraphale’s hand, its shape unmistakable, its purpose undeniable, and Aziraphale thinks he may be starting to understand.

“It’s all right,” he says, picking up the little black box under his demon’s watchful gaze and handing it to him. “Actually, I think maybe it would be nice to stay in tonight, in case we’d like to do some celebrating. What do you say?”

Crowley wraps his fingers around the box, holds it over his heart, but he only has eyes for Aziraphale. “I do.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place right before chapter 1.

“What time is our reservation again, my dear?” Aziraphale asks from outside Crowley’s locked office door. Aziraphale knows what time their reservation is. It’s 8:30. Crowley has reminded him numerous times, going so far as to leave a plethora of messages around his shop written in midnight black ink on red Post-It paper that not a single soul with working eyes could ignore. They’re stuck to his teapot, his chair, his curio cabinet; they’ve even made their way inside his books so that the few customers he’s had this past week have actually taken it upon themselves to remind him, too, as they paid for their purchases.

All very unnecessary seeing as demon and angel have started living together now.

One would be hard pressed to tell that seeing as Aziraphale’s presence in Crowley’s flat has been limited so far in its representation. But it’s there in subtle ways – a rare book here, a miniature oil painting there, a few tartan items on Crowley’s dresser in the bedroom, a bottle of his favorite spirits in the fridge, a box of biscuits in the cupboard, those sorts of things. The time they don’t spend in Crowley’s flat they spend together in Aziraphale’s bookshop, absolutely surrounded by those crimson Post-Its. So there’s no way Aziraphale could have forgotten.

But it seems Crowley has, making a beeline for his office the second they’d gotten in and locking the door. Aziraphale assumed he wanted to give his plants a decent misting before they went out, though that doesn’t explain his locking the door. But he’s been inside for hours, and Aziraphale can’t seem to get him out.

“Uh … 8:30,” Crowley replies, his voice muffled by the thick door between them. “Why?”

“Well, it’s 7:45 now, so I figure we should get a wiggle on? You know, to wherever it is you’re taking us? Though considering the way you drive, it will likely take us only three-and-a-half seconds to get there. But I would like to, just this once, go to dinner without putting the fear of God into anyone.”

That last comment is bait. Any other time it would succeed in luring his demon out of hiding so Crowley can inform him that he doesn’t put the fear of _God_ into anyone, and that that saying is a side-effect of societal conditioning. Besides, if a _life-or-death_ situation puts the fear of God into someone over the fear of Satan, then that should say a thing or two about God, shouldn’t it?

But Crowley doesn’t rise to the challenge, not even with so much as a huff.

“I’ll just be another moment,” Crowley says. “I’m wrapping up a few things.”

“Okay.” Aziraphale sighs and backs away from the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen having a brandy when you’re ready. Please, don’t take too long.”

_Too long? It’s only been 6000 years! That’s not too long, is it?_ “I won’t, angel.”

Crowley stands by the door, listening to Aziraphale’s footsteps pad off down the hallway. He waits till he can no longer hear them, then sneaks out of his office and heads to the bedroom. He’s not dressed for dinner. Not an inch, but that’s not a concern. He doesn’t own a single outfit he can’t toss on in less than a second.

He’d gone to his office to prepare for tonight, to grab something important – no, something _essential_. But when he found it, it triggered a minor anxiety attack, which steadily became a major anxiety attack the longer he looked at it.

Now he’s trapped in the midst of a full blown existential crisis on what should be one of the most important nights of their lives.

He hurries through the bedroom and into the bathroom where his ensemble for the evening hangs on the back of the door, waiting for him to put it on. It took him over a week to pick it out - ludicrous since he doesn’t have much in the way of variety in his wardrobe. Black on black with a few articles of dark grey, some trimmed in red - that’s all he owns.

Shocking.

And for a demon about to propose to an angel, a creature of love and kindness and light, that’s pretty pathetic.

_Aziraphale deserves beauty_, Crowley thinks as he puts on his somber clothes. _He deserves rainbows and sunshine and starlight._

Starlight.

Crowley could give him starlight at least … couldn’t he? He gave starlight to the world. He should be able to give it to Aziraphale.

He looks down at his hands, but he can’t bring himself to snap his fingers.

He can’t bring himself to try and fail.

No. He can’t give Aziraphale starlight. Not now. Not as a demon.

As an angel, he could, but as a demon, what can he do?

He can show him affection in the shallow way humans do, by showering him with lavish gifts. That would be easy for him, take no effort whatsoever. But Aziraphale isn’t impressed by those things. $18,000 watches, expensive cars and clothes don’t impress him. Everything Crowley owns has a designer label attached and Aziraphale has never once batted an eye.

He’s been wearing the exact same coat for over a hundred-and-eighty years, for Satan’s sake! His glasses might actually be older!

Even the restaurant Crowley is taking them to tonight – the finest new French restaurant he could find in London, with an exclusive guest list and lines around the corner – won’t likely impress him.

And if the crepes are crap, he’ll write it off completely, even if the flatware is gold-plated.

Aziraphale relishes the things that show Crowley cares, that he listens when he talks, that he pays attention to his tastes: old books, classical music, trips to the museum, food. He’s filled his bookshop with quaint personal touches – cherubs and teacups and snuff boxes collected throughout the centuries. He didn’t hunt them down and buy them in the present, shelling out hundreds upon hundreds of dollars for them. He bought them from the original artists and kept them safe. Some of the keepsakes in his shop are worth thousands; some are worth nothing. But they’re there because he loves them, and that makes them priceless.

Crowley’s flat is cold and impersonal in comparison, the few things he owns priceless in dollar value, but honestly, most of it means nothing to him.

It’s there for show.

He flips the collar of his shirt, changing it from red to tartan in Aziraphale’s own personal pattern. It’s a little thing, but Aziraphale would appreciate that … wouldn’t he?

Is it enough?

Crowley looks at himself in the mirror and grimaces. Yup. There he is, looking exactly the way he always fucking does - like a Goddamned serial killer, except now he has a plucky tartan collar.

“What the bloody fuck am I doing?” he growls at his reflection. “Aziraphale’s an _angel_! He’s handsome and smart and witty and fun! He inspires humanity to be _better_! Who am I compared to that? I’ll tell you who I am - I’m a bitter old snake who drives too fast and yells at plants! He deserves better than me!” Crowley shakes his head, sinking further and further with every turn of his cheek into the mire of his own self-hatred. “He doesn’t know what I am. Not really.”

But if Aziraphale did, he wouldn’t turn away. He wouldn’t leave. Crowley knows this. That’s not who Aziraphale is. He would stand beside Crowley to his own destruction. Marriage to Crowley could most definitely destroy him, if for no other reason that it would put a big, red bullseye on his back for every supernatural entity to see, good _or_ evil.

They’ve managed to keep Heaven and Hell off their backs, but how long can that last?

Aziraphale would say forever, but Crowley doesn’t have much in the way of faith.

Crowley has been lying to everyone. He’s been lying to Hell about what he’s been doing, lying to himself that he’s worthy of his angel.

Lying to Aziraphale, which is the biggest sin of them all.

_It’s not so much a lie, _he assures himself, _but an omission. It never came up, so he never told. Is that really the same thing?_

He snarls at his face in the mirror.

_Fuck_! Is he really trying to loophole his way out of this one? To _himself_?

He chuckles humorlessly. _Of course I am._ _I’m_ _a demon. That’s what I do._

And because he’s so good at it, Aziraphale is lying, too.

Corruption. It’s contagious.

And regardless of the money he’s accumulated, the status he holds, the power he has, that’s all he can give his angel.

Corruption.

“He thinksss that, deep down, I’m a good perssson,” he hisses. “Becaussse he’sss never ssseen true Evil!” A flashback of Satan rising through the asphalt pops into his head as if in response to that remark. He shakes his head. “Not wearing the face of sssomeone he lovesss! He trusssts me too much! He’sss making a missstake! He doesssn’t believe I can be all that bad!” Crowley swallows hard, swallows down the power swelling within him, that’s called to the surface whenever he gets angry. “Well, if he refussses to believe, I’ll ssshow him! He’ll sssee!”

With a snap of his fingers, he transforms. Wings tear his shirt, ripping through it like paper. His skin goes grey, falls from his frame in chunks revealing maggots underneath. His fingernails grow and curve unto themselves, tips piercing his flesh. Muscles bulge unsightly, joints crack. Feathers fall from his wings till they’re skeletal, the graceful arches bending like wire. His face elongates, hollows at the cheeks, his eyes going black and sinking into their sockets.

The next time he dares look at his face, he’s unrecognizable.

He doesn’t change into this form often. He’s too fond of the human façade he’s created for himself. Every time he changes, he fears he won’t be able to go back. But this is him. And if Aziraphale is dead set and determined to convince himself that he’s in love with a demon, then he needs to see Crowley for who he is.

Crowley stares at himself in the mirror, takes a good long look so that he’ll stop forgetting, stop convincing himself he’s something he’s not.

He can only stand it for a second, then he turns away.

Yes, this demon is him, but it’s also not him. Not entirely. Not anymore. And not for a long time. He might hate that this is the real form of the demon Crowley, but he has to give himself credit for the good that he’s done, intentionally or otherwise. The good that he is.

The parts of him that Aziraphale loves, which seems to be all of him, good or bad.

He sighs, ragged breaths issuing from holes in his lungs and filling up his entire chest cavity, ringing through it like the wind howling through a dead wood log. He knows he has to tell Aziraphale, but not now. He can’t do it now. He doesn’t have the strength. He’s already tapping every inch of his energy to get through this proposal.

He doesn’t know how he could land two weights of equal mass on Aziraphale’s shoulders in one night and expect him to stick around.

Of course, he should probably drop this one on him first, but the demon in him consistently convinces him that’s a bad idea.

And the cowardice in his subconscious tends to agree.

“All right,” he says, his voice an octave lower, grinding in his throat as if drug over nails and rocks. “We’re done pitying ourselves for now. Let’s be done with this, and propose to our angel.”

He snaps his fingers again, picturing, as best he can, his human face in his head.

But nothing happens.

That’s not entirely true. He swears he sees a bright white light. It actually stops his heart for a second since he assumes Aziraphale has miracled his way in, but it’s not his angel. A glance around the room proves that he’s still alone.

And he’s still a mess.

He tries again. He snaps his fingers. No white light this time, so that must have been an illusion, but nothing else changes. Only now, the image of his face in his head has begun to fade.

He snaps and snaps until the skin on his fingers starts to peel away, but not a bit of him goes back to _normal_.

But what _is_ normal? He’s having a difficult time remembering.

“Shit! Shit shit shit shit _shit_!” he mumbles, going about this a different way and attacking himself instead. He tugs at his wings, digs his nails into his arms, his face, trying to tear through the rotting flesh to the human skin he prays lies underneath.

But it doesn’t.

There’s not an inch of good or healthy or wholesome within him. It’s an illusion. All an illusion. An armor he uses to blend in, deceive. An armor he’s grown to rely on as much as he relies on Aziraphale.

And he doesn’t know how to get it back.


End file.
